


Reunited

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fucking, Lemon, Love, POV Sandor, POV Sansa, Reunions, Sex, Smut, True Love, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-20 20:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14268825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: Westerosi A/U, SanSan: Pre-BotB Sansa resides in a war camp waiting for Jon to amass an army to march on Winterfell. When a half dead man on a horse enters the camp, Sansa realizes she has a second chance to show Sandor Clegane her true feelings.An ode to the 'nursing him back to health just so we can have sex with him' fics. It's going to be mostly on the porn without plot side of life. Enjoy!





	1. A Half Dead Man

# Chapter 1: A Half Dead Man

# Sansa

 

Sansa Stark hated the constant noise and smell of the army encampment, but knew it was a necessary evil. She’d fought long and hard, been through so much both physically and emotionally, that she felt ancy being so close to the end. Her daring escape from Winterfell, from Ramsay Bolton, had paid off in a big way. She’d found her way to safety, back to Jon, and they were going to take back their home. This was what was driving her now, forcing her to be on the front lines of a battle that would be of epic proportions.

 

Running her fingers through her hair, she continued to write her pleas to the lesser lords to support them. Jon had taken some men and was attempting to garner more support before they were to strike, she was responsible for persuading them in written. Some wars were won with armies and pure strength, others were won on the wings of ravens. The battle of Winterfell would be won by both.

 

Her tent flap opened, a young captain stuck his face inside. “My Lady, there is a man approaching the camp.”

 

Sansa was in charge during Jon’s absence, a lone man approaching the camp was cause for alarm. Perhaps Ramsay wanted to treat with them, or he was sending a spy. The possibilities ran through her head as Sansa mucked her way through the sludge of the camp. She’d taken to wearing black leather pants, riding boots and a green doublet. It was masculine in her opinion, but it was the only way to move practically though the dirt and the grime of where she was. Jumping on her horse, she followed the captain to the edge of the camp.

 

“Lady Stark,” the lookout addressed her. “It’s a man on a horse, we don’t see any house colors on him.” He handed her the spyglass.

 

Holding the large piece of equipment to her eye, she looked in the direction of a dark grey dot heading in their direction. It was a man, that much was clear just by the sheer size of him. But there were arrows sticking out of him and blood on his side, his slumped posture made it clear that he wasn’t there to treat with them.

 

“Do you know if he’s alive?” She asked the lookout.

 

“No my lady.”

 

Sansa peered again into the glass, taking stock of the man on the black charger. There was something about the horse that was familiar, then there was even something about the armor that was familiar. Then she spotted the helmut.

 

“It’s the Hound.” She said, turning to the Captain. The man seemed flustered, not knowing what he should do.

 

“Ride with two men out there, if he’s alive bring him to me.” She paused, “Even if he’s dead bring him to me.”

 

“But my Lady, he’s a Lannister man.” The Captain argued.

 

Narrowing her eyes at him Sansa continued, “He’s a Lannister man no more. He is a Lord of Westeros and he will be treated as such in this camp. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes my Lady.” He answered, calling two other mounted men.

 

She watched them gallop toward the the Hound and turned her horse back to her tent. That was when her heart dropped to her stomach. After all these years and all the rumors, the Hound was alive. Her protector, her secret ally, the only man who had treated her with an ounce of respect was alive. There was no doubting that she had harbored an attraction to him, even before she left King’s Landing. The most feared warrior in the Seven Kingdoms had never changed his gruff, straight talking attitude toward her. He had, however, always treated her with a gentle kindness few saw.

 

Her hands trembled as she took out the things she had pilfered from the Maester’s cabinet. Salves to prevent infection, needles, gut ...all the things she might need to fix him were laid out on her table. Her bed prepared for him. The commotion outside her tent lead her through the flap. Stranger was nipping at anybody who tried to pull Sandor Clegane from him. Still protective of his master, not knowing if he was alive or dead.

 

Walking up to the horse calmly she stared the animal in the eye, holding her hand out. Stranger snorted but looked toward her, sniffing the air. Taking another step forward she placed her hand on his nose and grabbed his reigns gently. The wild black charger moved slightly, then relaxed under her touch.

 

“It’s ok to take him off now.” She said, looking at the men staring at her in surprise.

 

It took five grown men to take Clegane off his horse, then move him into her tent. Holding her hand to his throat, a wave of relief swept over her to feel a faint pulse.

 

She looked at the men in her tent, “You, take the horse away. You and you remove his armor and his clothing.”

 

The men stood there, frozen by her words. Cocking her head to the side Sansa realized suddenly, _‘They’re afraid of him. The Hound is half dead, clinging to life and these men are still afraid of him.’_

 

“You know he’s a man of flesh and blood. He’s the same as you under that armor.” The men then reluctantly turned to the jobs she had assigned them.

 

“Break the arrows off at the fletching but leave them for now.” Sansa ordered.

 

Traveling in the camp had exposed Sansa to many things, how to care for wounds had certainly been one of those. She had been surprised to see she was good at it. Apparently all those years watching the Maester at Winterfell and all that wasted time spent doing needle point had been good for something.

 

When she turned back around, a bucket of water in one hand and some clean rags in the other, the Hound was naked, her men arranging his armor and sword on the floor next to her bed. He was a fallen god, a warrior just as intimidating without his armor, as he laid there unconscious. She understood why the men were afraid of him, his body was a landscape of violence. A horror story of victory, defeating opponents through sheer strength and skill.

 

 _‘How many times has he outwitted the Stranger?’_ she wondered to herself as she took him in, looking for fresh wounds on his body.

 

“You can leave now.” She told the men, glaring at them when they thought to protest.

 

Sandor had been shot three times by an exceptionally skilled archer. He’d taken two arrows in his shoulder and upper back area and one to the side. He’d lost more blood than he should. Sansa knew there were body organs there, knew that if any had been pierced that perhaps she would not be able to save him. Taking the wet rags, she wiped away the blood from the sites to get an idea of how bad the damage was.

 

One arrow had passed through him completely, clearly fitting in a small uncovered part of his flesh where the armor had provided him protection. The other two had not passed through, their momentum stopped by the armor. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the first arrow in his shoulder through, watching the blood spurt out on the other end. Then she breathed in deeply, pushing the second arrow in his side through. It came through easily, something the Maester had told her was a good sign that  it had not hit bone or an organ.

 

 _‘You’re lucky.’_ She thought to herself. She stuck a finger in this wound for good measure, unable to detect bone fragments.

 

Sansa cleaned the wounds as much as she could, poured some of the salve for infection over them and rubbed it in. She couldn’t help but be in awe of his build, even unconscious his body was firm, his muscles sculpted by his years as a warrior. Taking the needle and gut she began to sew up his wounds. She took care, doing her best to sew up his skin in a neat line. Once finished, she brought her hand to his head to check for a temperature. There was no need to worry now. She brought her ear to his barreled chest to listen for a heart beat, there was one, slow and steady.

 

She looked him over one more time, her eyes settling between his legs. Then immediatly admonished herself for admiring the literal trunk that hung there. Covering his lower half quickly with some furs, she looked back to his scared, disfigured face. He would need to pass the night.

 

“Please live.” She whispered, knowing he could not hear.


	2. A Woman Grown, A Lady Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor wakes up to more than he bargained for in the army camp.

#  Chapter 2: A Woman Grown, a Lady Made

#  Sandor

 

His senses returned in bits and pieces, his head more foggy than it should be as Sandor Clegane stirred from his unbid slumber. The smells came rushing in first, the smell of piss, horses and men.  _ ‘An army camp.’ _ He thought.

 

There was something else in the air though, something that didn’t quite fit. It was lavender and some other flower he didn’t know the name of. _ ‘A woman?’ _ he moved, immediately aware that it was a bad idea. Pain shot through his body, forcing him back to the bed.

 

Next to him where he lay there was movement, out of the corner of his eye there was a quick flourish of activity. It was dark in the tent, night had most certainly fallen. Once the candle was lit and his eyes adjusted to the light, the woman was there sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. 

 

What met his eyes was the furthest from what he could have ever imagined. It was a face from his dreams, the woman he thought of when he was drunk and alone, the lady that haunted him since his departure from King’s Landing. Sandor tried to say something but nothing came out of his mouth.

 

Sansa put her hand on his neck to quiet him, it served the dual purpose of proving to Sandor that it wasn’t a dream. “You were found half dead on your horse, with three arrows in your back.”

 

She motioned to his right shoulder and Sandor looked down, the candle light only giving him a rough idea of what had happened there. When he tried to sit up again, she did her best to help him. Her hands on his skin were warm and soft. 

 

“That was three days ago.” She said with concern in her voice, or relief he couldn’t be quite sure.

 

Sandor was in pain, his insides burning. He took a closer look at his wounds, the candle light was closer providing more light, “You did this?” Was all he could say, referring to the stitches that he had in his shoulder and side. It was only then that he realized he was naked.

 

Sansa nodded. 

 

“Where are my clothes?” He asked, still a bit out of sorts. She pointed to a pile of bloody rags in the corner. 

 

“And my armor?” Sandor couldn’t take his eyes off her, the way the candle light lit up her face, played across her red hair. Her blue silk robe was loose at the top exposing her cleavage, guiding his eyes toward her supple womanly form. 

 

“It’s over there.” She pointed a little bit behind her. His eyes never left her face, how could they? He only checked to see if his sword was there, which it was. 

 

She took his injured arm in her hands, bringing it to rest in her lap, then lifted her eyes to his. “Can you feel this?” She asked running her fingers over the bicep of his right arm.

 

He took a sharp intake of breath. “Yes.” Despite her soft touch, the pain was severe.

 

Sansa ran her light, smooth, soft fingers over his muscled forearm, sending a rush of blood between his legs. He nodded, his heart rate increasing.

 

“And here?” There was a cheeky little grin that crossed her lips as she moved each of his fingers, stoking his desire for her. His fingers twitched as they brushed against her belly, she was cradling his heavy hand in her lap after all.

 

“Uh huh.” Was all he could answer. Sandor’s singular focus was on the woman in front of him.

 

“That’s good.” She said. “It’s your sword hand.” She was nervous as she said it. Happy that it seemed he had not lost function there, “Now try to grip my hand to see…”

 

She hadn’t finished her sentence before he had grabbed her forearm, pulling her off balance and closer to him. His nose skirted her throat, his warm breath sending goosebumps down her neck. It took her a long time to answer, she was frozen in his grasp. Sandor focused on her neck pulse, satisfied to see it beat faster. 

 

“It seems you have still have your strength my Lord.” It was a whisper in his ear, a light breath that made him tent the heavy furs on his lap. He wanted her to know his desire for her, she was a woman now, no longer the girl he had left in King’s Landing. She had changed for the better. 

 

He could tell Sansa was responding to his breathing, that she was nervous her sense of perception heightened in the near darkness. But Sandor couldn’t hold her for long, the pain had become too great. He released her gently, following her body with his eyes as she sat back on the bed. All he could do was stare at her and wonder about all the things he had heard about her while on the road. 

 

She shifted nervously under his gaze before she spoke, “You should rest.”

 

Sandor didn’t react, he just watched her, searching her eyes for all the answers to his unspoken questions. Sansa walked around the bed, then blew out the candle. Before his eyes had adjusted to the light she had gotten under the furs with him. His erection still at its peak, he gripped her upper arm with his left hand, his good hand. She was suddenly close to him, her nearly naked body against his. A shiver ran through him.

 

“So sure this is wise?” He asked her in the darkness, warning her about sharing a bed with him.

 

There was a long pause from Sansa, he could hear her breath deeply, “You’ll never hurt me.” She whispered. 

 

At that he gripped her harder, pulling her in even closer to him. Sandor’s body hurting from the pain of his injuries and raging at the feeling of her touch. 

 

“And even if you were to try, you are just a man.” She stuck a finger to his right shoulder, right on the wound. At that he winced and cried out, loosening his grip on Sansa. 

 

_ ‘A she-wolf indeed.’  _ He grinned to himself as he laid back on the feather bed they would share that night. _ ‘A woman grown, a lady made.’  _

 

Making a bit of space between them, Sansa laid her head down on the pillow, her back to him.

Sandor waited until her breathing leveled, signaling sleep. With his good arm he pulled her body close, feeling only her small clothes on his naked skin. It was a gift from the gods he did not deserve, but had been wanting for as long as he could remember. 

 

_ ‘You’re safe with me little bird. Safe and sound.’  _


	3. Stop Fussin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story progression chapter in which Sansa gets a full look at her rapidly improving patient.

#  Chapter 3: Stop Fussin’

#  Sansa

 

A glint of the rising sun crossed Sansa’s face, waking her from a deep and incredibly relaxing sleep. She needed no time to remember what had happened yesterday or to understand who was beside her. Somehow in the night she had been pressed against Sandor Clegane’s body, her cheek on his chest, her leg thrown over his massive thigh and her hand buried in his thick chest hair. She smiled into him, his chest rising and falling gently as he gently snored, still asleep. Never in a million years would she have believed she could find herself in such a situation. Lazily waking up next to one of the most dreaded warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. 

 

Sansa exhaled lightly, running her hand through the hair on this chest, moving gently toward his waist. There wasn’t a Lordling in Westeros who could hold a candle to his body, surpass him in strength or beat him in battle. He might not have been a knight, but you didn’t need to be to taste victory. Realizing it probably wasn’t a good thing to test the waters further, she made a motion to get out of bed, only to feel his strong hand grip her by the hip, restraining her next to him. She smiled, realizing only now that she slept nearly naked next to Sandor at her own risk. If he could so easily restrain her with one arm, and badly injured, she didn’t want to know how easy it would have been for him to overpower her in perfect health. She pondered this as he began to wake up, his thick calloused fingers sliding from her waist to her bum, then pressing her closer into him. 

 

“I see you’re feeling better.” She said, wanting desperately to know what was on his mind, but knowing his erection said it all.

 

“It still hurts like a bitch.” He mumbled, clearly not a morning person. 

 

Sansa sighed, “But if you can, we have to get you using it again. The sooner the better.” She rose from the bed, this time with no resistance, turned her back to him and grabbed her blue robe. She secured the long silk robe to her body with a belt and turned to look at her patient. She could see the slight disappointment in his eyes, his desire to have her stay near him. It made her grin to herself.

 

His dark eyes appraised her suspiciously, “Since when did you become a Maester, Little Bird?”

 

“You know as well as I do Clegane that if you don’t move your arm it will seize. You don’t have to be a Maester to know that.” She knew he couldn’t argue with that, knew he wouldn’t either. A self satisfied grin on her face, Sansa poked her head outside the tent to ask for some breakfast. 

 

When she turned around she wasn’t surprised to see that his eyes had not left her. A smirk on her face she came back to his side, slid her hands around his good arm and motioned to help him sit up. To his credit he did as well as he could, but was not capable of moving everything on his own yet. She assessed his wounds, her eyes never tiring of looking upon his naked upper body. Remembering yesterday she leaned forward tentatively, so as not to be taken off guard by him, and smelled the wounds. If they were turning foul she would need to detect it now. Satisfied she had gotten all of the infection out the afternoon before, Sansa gently prodded the reddish tissue around the wounds.

 

The Hound grunted in pain, grabbing up her small hand in his rather large one gently. “Stop fussin’ woman if they were going bad I’d tell you.” 

 

She nodded, not knowing what else to say.

 

Breakfast came before she could answer him, drawing her attention away from him and to her desk. Quickly Sansa got up and removed some of the parchment she had been working on so that soldier could put the food there. The man left as quickly as he could, leaving her alone with Sandor. Not sure how to get him to the table, Sansa wrinkled up her nose and turned her attentions back to the bed. The flush that crept up her neck and cheeks was immediate and as crimson as the Lannister coat of arms. The Hound had gotten out of bed, walked over to his crumpled up clothing, his naked bum to her and had begun to dress himself. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his bum, it was like one of those statues in the garden of the royal palace. Sculpted, contoured and much whiter than the rest of his body. She suppressed a giggle as Clegane maneuvered precariously into his trousers, leaving any modesty behind and nothing to the imagination. She turned her body then, hopefully giving him the illusion that she had been the picture of womanly virtue during this semi-private moment.

 

A low chuckle came from Sandor’s direction, then she could hear him approaching. As she sat down she noticed he had his shirt bloody torn shirt from the day before, crumpled in his good hand. He held it out to her, not saying a word. 

 

Sansa arched an eyebrow at this gesture, knowing what he wanted and knowing it was cheeky. “You want me to wash and fix this shirt?” She asked, in mock disbelief.

 

“No one else around here is gonna do it.” His good arm stayed outstretched, his eyes slightly hopeful.

 

Crossing her arms across her chest, Sansa gave him an obstinate look.  _ ‘You’re going to have to do a lot better than that Clegane.’ _

 

Knowing he wasn’t making any progress on the topic, the Hound cleared his throat and started again, “I would...uh...really appreciate if you would fix it. I don’t think anything else here would fit me.”

 

Sansa lifted an eyebrow one final time, a nail in the coffin.

 

“Please.” The word came out fast and almost indecipherable, as if it hurt him to say it. But he had said it all the same.

 

“Alright.” Sansa said, taking the shirt from him. “Just this once.”

 

He nodded in begrudging appreciation then sat down across from her to eat his breakfast. 

 

“I have to finish up some pieces of parchment now, then when I go refresh myself I’ll be sure to wash it and fix it. You’ll have it tonight.” He didn’t seem to really be listening, food was his current focus.

 

_ ‘Well at least an appetite is a good sign.’ _ Sansa thought to herself as she ate some fruit and porridge. 

 

Their breakfast passed in silence and lasted only a few moments. Once finished Sandor he went over to his pile of armor and pulled out his sword. It was clear by how he held it that his arm would take time to heal. But Sansa admired the determined look in his eye as he winced, flexed his shoulder and lifted the nearly four foot broadsword. 

 

“The training yard is…” she began but was cut off.

 

“What did I tell you about fussin’ Little Bird?” he was teasing her a bit, that much was clear from his voice. It frustrated her not to see his face though. “You know where I’ll be.” He continued, looking back at her with a glint in his eye.

 

_ ‘The Hound with a sense of humor?’ _ she laughed to herself.

 

Her eyes followed him to the tent entrance, where he left without saying another word.


	4. At the Water's Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound happens upon something he does not expect, bringing him closer to his Little Bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again this story is a short one, just for a fun little mindless ride. Cheers!

#  Chapter 4: At the Water’s Edge

#  Sandor

 

The Little Bird hadn’t been wrong about the benefits of moving his arm around, she just hadn’t warned him about how much pain he would have to endure before it got easier. Sandor’s injured, shirtless sparing had won him quite a crowd in the training yard, though he wasn't’ sure exactly who they were cheering for. It didn’t fucking matter in the end, he needed to work his muscles, move his tendons and keep the strength in his arm if he had any chance of moving on from the camp. An injured lone dog was easy prey, and he had made no friends in Westeros.

 

_ ‘Well perhaps one friend.’ _ Sandor thought as visions of Sansa reentered his mind. He had never expected in million years to wake up and see her there beside him, to be reunited with her after all the things that had happened in King’s Landing. Yet there she was, fussing about him as if he mattered to her, as if she cared about him. He’d always harbored a forbidden desire for the girl, one that wasn’t easily forgotten or covered up.

 

As the fifth fresh man stepped up to challenge him he looked down at Sansa’s handy work. He couldn’t deny she’d done a good job sewing him up. He hadn’t burst his stitches yet and that was something. She’d also tried her best to make his wounds clean and tidy, it had probably saved his life, or his arm at the very least. The anger that he felt toward that cunt of an archer who had shot him in the back fueled him as he brought both hands to the hilt of his sword and swung at his opponent. The man jumped back, not having yet had full appreciation for the length of Sandor’s arms. He smiled his disfigured face contorting, evoking a fearful look from the man who came at him shaking and nervous. 

 

_ ‘This bunch of cockless pricks are going to storm Winterfell?’ _ he suddenly realized.  _ ‘This lot of old men and green boys were going to march on one of the most easily defensible strongholds in the Seven Kingdoms and take it back from the Boltons? They’re fucked.’ _

 

Blocking two blows easily and stepping in to smack the man about the head with his good hand a bit of uneasiness began to grip Sandor, _ ‘If they lose, that psycho bastard will take her back. He’s gonna take her back with a vengeance.’ _

 

The stories he had heard on the road about Ramsey made even the Hound’s stomach turn. The things he had been rumored to have done to Sansa made his blood boil. The man Sandor was fighting lunged, falling a bit off balance, enough for him to kick him to the floor and demand a yield. Suddenly he didn’t want to fight anymore, he wanted to be with her, to look at her and to figure out what to do to get her away from Ramsay Bolton safely. 

 

_ ‘You won’t have her again bastard.’ _ he promised himself.

 

Throwing his hands up Sandor made his way back to Sansa’s tent, poking his head inside and not finding her there.  _ ‘She said she’d go to wash up and then…the river.’  _

 

His shoulder ached from overuse as he scanned the camp. It wasn’t hard to know where she would have gone, but where on the river exactly was a bit more difficult to figure out. The encampment was all along the river, surly she would have gone to a more remote place, away from prying eyes to bathe. 

 

Sandor didn’t know this area well, nor was he sure which way she would have gone. Looking around he spotted a small hill a bit away from the camp with some flowers there. It seemed a place a lady would go to get away from the dirt and grim of war. He made his way quickly toward where the hill and the river would intersect. The Hound did half hope he’d come upon her naked in the water, enjoying one of the last warm days of winter. He was just a man as she had so rightly pointed out, he had needs and desires. Sansa Stark was certainly one of those desires. 

 

The closer Sandor got to the river and the further he got away from camp, the more uneasy he became. He trusted his  instincts, they had kept him alive longer than most. Something wasn’t right, actually something was terribly wrong, if he had to bet on it. Quickening his pace Sandor kept low, his eyes sweeping the river and the field. 

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

 

She was there just as he had suspected. He didn’t have to hear her screams to know she  had run halfway into the field and was struggling against a man. A boy if Sandor judged it correctly. They were of almost equal size, he was a scrawny son of a bitch and he had a knife. Somehow she’d been able to keep him from overpowering her completely, but she was only just hanging on. 

 

He ran toward the pair, sword in hand. The struggle was reaching a climax as they fell to the ground. The boy was on top of her, using his weight to try to plunge the knife toward Sansa’s chest. They were so involved in their struggle the assassin never heard him coming. Sandor grabbed the boy by the collar and threw him like a rag doll to the side. Not even looking to see if Sansa was ok, the Hound moved toward where the boy had hit the ground and kicked him. He felt nothing but anger and rage. The young attacker held his side and scooted backward a foot or two.

 

“Who sent you boy?” were the first words to pass Sandor’s angry lips.

 

“No one Ser.” The boy stuttered. He was dressed as a squire. 

 

“Boys like you don’t go around poking ladies with knives. So who sent you?” Sandor didn’t hesitate to bring the blade of his sword down severing the boy’s foot from his leg. Leaving him shrieking in pain and crying.

 

“Lord Ramsay...he said I….I…” he was losing blood and couldn’t think clearly. It was all Sandor needed to hear. 

 

“You picked the wrong master to work for boy…” Were the Hound’s final words to  the screeching, shaking scared assassin on the ground before him. When Sandor’s sword came down again, it took the boy’s head. 

 

The threat gone, he turned to Sansa. She was nude, though the tall flowers of the field shielded her woman’s place from his view. Her arms were wrapped around herself in an attempt to shield her body from the wind and cold. Tears rolled down her cheeks, she was clearly shaken by the incident.

 

_ ‘The fuckin’ bastard of Bolton has balls.’ _ Sandor admitted before he stepped toward Sansa. Her lip was bleeding, but otherwise she seemed ok. It took a special kind of crazy to try to assassinate the Lady of Winterfell in her own army’s camp. It seemed Ramsay was running scared, and if he wasn’t, he would be soon.

 

“I’m fine.” She said to him, pulling her arms around herself tighter. She turned and made her way to the river. Dazed, she padded to the water.

 

Knowing it probably wasn’t the best idea to leave her alone, Sandor followed her back to the water. She had hung up her blue silk robe on the knot of a tree near the water, had hung his once bloody shirt, now clean and fixed on a branch to dry. 

 

_ ‘Oh Little Bird.’  _ his heart softened, it yearned for her. 

 

She didn’t deserve any of this, any of the things that had happened to her since her father had unwittingly rode to King’s Landing, to his death. She deserved to be safe, somewhere where it didn’t smell like piss and fear. She deserved to be with him, safe and warm in his bed.

 

He watched her creamy little ass enter the water. Sandor also kept an eye on her as she began cleaning off the bits of dirt, grass and some blood from her lip away. She leaned her head back in the stream and closed her eyes, took a deep breath and  then motioned he take her robe from the tree. Sandor had to look away as she walked out of the water toward him, her nearly perfect form covered in silver water droplets, her fire red hair sticking to her shoulders. She was a water nymph who didn’t know the power she had over mortal men. To look upon her would have been to lose all control of himself, would have been to take her right there in the dirt of the river. So he held out her robe and looked away, affording her a respect that few Lords and Knights had ever shown her. 

 

Satisfied she’d taken enough time to cover herself, Sandor turned back to Sansa. She smiled at him through her tears, grabbed his shirt from the tree limb then took him by the hand. 

 

“Thank you.” She whispered, almost too low for him to hear. Then she lead him back toward the camp, back to the tent they shared. 


	5. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .....what we've all been waiting for occurs ;-) From both perspectives.

#  Chapter 5: Reunited

#  Sansa  
  


The incident at the river had shaken her, it had opened up wounds not fully healed. That terrible mix of fear, disgust and anger came flooding back to Sansa as she lead Sandor through the camp, making her way back to the tent she called home.She needed to act like nothing happened, she needed to quell the anxiety that rose deep in her chest, threatening to choke her where she stood. In truth she did not know these men around her, there were lesser lords who could have easily had fought for her family, or for the Boltons. There were peasants too, who were forced into the army by their lord and there were, apparently, assassins among them waiting to pick her off when the chance arose. She choked back a tear at the realization that the only person she could trust aside from Jon, was holding her hand now, following her.

 

Upon entering the tent Sansa sat down at her desk and put her head in her hands. She would not shed a tear, but she would take a moment to let her fear and anger run their course through her body. The plop of a wineskin on the desk made her look up from her hands. Sandor was grabbing another chair and bringing it in front of her. She drank long and deep, happy for the thick red liquid to coat her mouth and slowly calm her nerves. They were nearly knee to knee now, as he sat down in front of her. The chair creaking under his weight.

 

“That’s enough I’d say.” He said, taking the wineskin from her hands and turning it to his own lips. He took a sizable swig then, nearly empty, threw the skin to the ground. He then began to observe her, in the way he often did an opponent before melee combat. It was an intent, all encompassing kind of gaze, one honed to find both strengths and weaknesses. 

 

Sansa suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze, not sure what to make of his intentions.  _ ‘He’s surely going to lecture me like Jon would.’ _

 

But he didn’t, he simply sat across from her, content to wait for her to speak. Knowing she had to acknowledge something Sansa spoke, making sure she didn’t choke on her words. “It seems that I need more protection than I would care to admit.” She started, doing her best to suppress the quiver from her voice.

 

The Hound said nothing. He just looked at her, waiting for what else she might say.

 

“You have always been the one to protect me Clegane, perhaps you would like to serve as my sworn…” she didn’t have the opportunity to finish her sentence.

 

“No.” Came his gruff voice, his eyes never wavering from hers. Her perplexed look seemed to spur him further. “After the Blackwater I decided I didn’t fit in any lord’s games, nor did I want to serve anyone other than myself.”

 

“I see.” Sansa said, looking down quickly, her foolishness showing itself in a blush that crept slowly into her cheeks. “I understand and respect your decision, but there must be some way to keep you by my side.”

 

She had turned her eyes back to his, knowing that the only way to discern what he was thinking would be through those dark grey orbs in front of her. He glanced quickly to her breasts then back again, doing his best to keep his expression impassive. But he had already given himself away. Sansa knew well, that no matter what a person might say or not say, that their eyes would always betray them. Humans used their eyes to covet, used their eyes to seek out the things they truly wanted. Sandor’s had confirmed to her something that she had always hoped was true, that he did covet her.

 

Mustering what courage she could, and never letting her eyes leave his, Sansa stood from her chair. The Hound remained expressionless as her hands moved to the small belt that kept her blue silken robe covering her body and unfastened it. She dropped the belt to the floor, allowing the robe to hang open, exposing her body to the crisp air of the tent, and to Sandor’s eyes. It was one thing for a man to take a passing glance at a woman’s body, to observe it from afar. It was a completely different thing for a woman to share her body with him, allow him to look and bid he do more. Sansa never took her eyes from Sandor’s scarred face, watching his lips part and the corner of the good side of his mouth twitch slightly. Unsure if he was in disbelief or shock Sansa stood her ground waiting for him to react. Hoping he would accept her offer for what it was, to be more to her than a sword and a man swinging it. She wanted him to be close to her, whatever that meant.

 

His head was at her chest height, his eyes filled with questions. Sandor gently, almost timidly reached out his hand and traced his fingers down her body from her chest to her belly. His large fingers depressing her skin ever so slightly as he observed her in the dimly lit tent. 

 

“Whenever I want?” It seemed to be spoken more as a personal desire than a question. As if he were in the fog of a dream.

 

Sansa smiled, relieved that she hadn’t made a fool of herself the second time that day. “Whenever  _ we _ want.” She corrected him.

 

“And when you take a husband?” He hadn’t removed his hand from Sansa’s belly, so she covered his hand with her own, pressing it more firmly to her skin.

 

“I’m sick of marriage if truth be told. Once Ramsay is dead there is nobody in the Seven Kingdoms entitled to an opinion as to who I share my bed with.” She was nervous as she said it, not sure what his response would be. 

 

She would have given just about anything to know what he was thinking in that moment. Though as he rose from the chair, moving his hand from her stomach to the small of her back, bringing his lips gently to hers and lacing the fingers of his sword hand in her hair, she didn’t need to ponder it long. The groan that escaped his lips as her hands moved to his chest and then teasingly down to his hips, was so beautiful and so honest that it made Sansa’s hands tremble. 

 

Sansa hugged him closer, focusing on the movement of his lips and the skillfulness of his tongue. He chuckled into her neck as she tried to follow his mouth’s lead and failed miserably. It only made him resort to nipping at the nape of her neck, driving her further into his solid body, deeper into his muscled arms. Her curious hands began to explore his bum, moving their way along the top of his trousers toward the front of him. His intake of breath was quick as her fingertips skirted the tip of his erection, which had almost freed itself from the confines of his pants. She smiled at his reaction, reveled in the feeling of his manhood so soft and warm.

 

Nuzzling his neck Sansa took in his musky scent. He smelled like the training yard, his testosterone mixed with fresh wet dirt, that smelled like Winterfell after a summer rain. It made her feel comfortable and safe. Not able to help herself she ran her hands over the front of his trousers, getting a feel for what she knew was already there. He was thick and heavy, straining the fabric to its limit. He groaned at her touch pushing his hips toward her hands, urging her to touch him further. When Sansa tried to shrug off her silk robe, he broke his kisses, “Keep it on.” He whispered in her ear.

 

Breaking their embrace the Hound took her by the wrist and lead her to the bed. She’d always imagined to herself that having sex with Sandor Clegane would be to surrender all control to him, to bend to his will, to give the warrior free reign over her body. So it surprised her when he kicked off his trousers, laid on his back and guided her to straddle him from the top. Her experience in copulation was limited but certainly being on top of a man had never been a topic of conversation amongst the ladies she knew. It certainly didn’t follow her own experience, that was for sure. 

 

Sandor didn’t give her too much time to orient herself before reaching his good hand toward her bringing her face down to his and kissing her again. She was chest to chest with him, his erection slipping teasingly over the lips of her aching pussy. The feelings welling up inside her driving her to undulate over him more, in turn causing him to rub himself more across her warm wetness. 

 

He was overwhelming in his touch, it seemed his hands were everywhere at once on her body. Now she understood better why he wanted to her keep the silk on her skin. He was groaning as he touched the light silk of her robe over her curves, would pull back from their embrace to watch the fabric slide over her hardened nipples. Her head released from his grasp Sansa sat up, pinning his engorged cock to her with a hand and rubbing her clit wantonly against its slickened surface. She noted how his breathing changed, how his nostrils flared as he took in the sight of her pleasuring herself with his manhood. His grip on her thighs became tighter the hotter and heavier she played with him.

 

There was something in his eyes that tore at her heart as he took in the sight of her. There was a hunger in them, a desire to devour her beyond just sex. She’d never had a man look at her that way, as if he would do anything to keep her close to him. It was humbling and beautiful to the point that she hadn’t noticed a stray tear make its way down her cheek.

* * *

 

**Sandor**

 

Sandor made a point to raise his injured arm to her face and lightly wipe a stray tear from her cheek. Everything had happened so quickly, the assassination attempt at the water’s edge, her anger at being so vulnerable, then an offer of the most indecent kind. He’d never imagined that any woman would just give herself to him like that, much less this woman. Now here they were, closing a contract that would bring them closer together than he could have ever dreamed. 

 

She was more than beautiful, her lips pursed together, her blue eyes only for him, her little hand wrapped around his cock. It was only his burning need to have her that made him disrupt her naughty masterbating. Sandor’s hand slid between them, holding the base of his cock upright, inviting her to lower herself onto him. He grinned to see that she was a bit unsure about what to do. Sandor found that women often took great pleasure being on top of him, and he couldn’t wait for Sansa to do the same. 

 

There was a sharp intake of breath from both of them as she began to slowly lower herself on top of him. She leaned forward, putting her hand on his bad shoulder making him jerk in pain.

 

“Sorry.” She said, blushing and quickly switching hands. Sandor brought his hands to her hips helping her to take him fully. It was a slow, painstakingly sweet process. He could watch her wrinkled her brow in concentration and whip her hair around in pleasure all night. Sansa’s chest had a dusting of freckles and her pink nipples were begging for attention. It was a test of his resolve not to follow his own desires, but to wait until she had settled on him completely. Even then, when their hips were joined and he had long bottomed out inside her, she had to take a few moments to adjust to his manhood. 

 

Sandor was the picture of the patient lover, not rushing her and not pushing his own agenda until he knew they could move together with just the right amount of friction. When her eyes finally opened, he could see she was overwhelmed with the feeling of him. He reached a hand out and gently squeezed a breast, bringing her back to him, making her look onto him from above. Nudging her with his hips and eliciting a yelp of surprise, Sandor began to roll his hips under her showing her what was expected. 

 

There was a rhythm to be found, there was with every woman. Sansa was no different in this respect. This was his favorite part, watching a woman find her pace and the depth that would make her unravel. She started out slowly at first, almost tentatively but then quickly found out that the harder and faster she impaled herself on his cock the better it felt. When he began to move to her rhythm, a thumb over her clit, that was when she began to moan loudly. 

 

“Oh Sandor…” It was the deep and throaty kind of moaning, the kind that could make a man a slave to his lover. 

 

Sandor gripped her ass firmly and began to drag her tight wetness back and forth over him, eliciting an “Oh Gods!” and “More” from the red headed Lady of Winterfell. 

 

“Put your feet on the bed, then grip my thighs with your hands.” He said gruffly, wanting to feel her more deeply. 

 

She quickly complied, positioning herself as he said. Sandor then sat up, putting his hands on the backs of her legs to give her support. As Sansa began to squat on him, taking his full length every time, he knew he was a lost man. Occasionally he wouldn’t support her on her way down, just let her weight come down on his cock. She would grip his thighs harder groaning to the high heavens, beg him not to stop. 

 

The insides of her body began to tremble slightly at first, then suddenly she came loud and hard. Sansa clenched his cock tightly with her inner muscles, threw her head back, hair falling around her, a thin layer of sweat appearing on her skin and she came. Sandor looked between them and had never seen such wetness escape a woman before in his life. His stomach, balls and thighs were covered in her release. To be fair, he’d never seen anything so sexy in his life. He’d heard women could get so wet, but only if they really desired a man and if she was very willing. After wanting her for so long, desiring her when she was not to be desired his heart welled up in his chest. 

 

He flipped her on her back easily, kissing her neck and shoulder with warm open mouthed kisses. She was still coming, still enjoying the feeling of him inside her. Then the tent flap swung open, and two soldiers ran in, their swords at the ready.

 

Rolling his eyes and holding her possessively to him, “I could have killed her ten times by now boys.” Sandor spat.

 

The men just stared at him, eyes wide, surly wondering how this monster had come to fuck the Seven Hells out of one of the most stunning women in the Seven Kingdoms. Sandor gripped his prize close, like a hound ready to fight to the death for his food. “If I have to stop fucking her, my angry naked body coming toward you is gonna be the last thing you ever see. I promise you that.”

 

They seemed to get the point and backed out of the tent as quickly as two men could. Sandor’s eyes watched them leave, only turning when her hand came to his face. She was smiling, her copper hair sticking in certain places to her face. She grabbed his ass, pushing his hips deeper inside her, “Please don’t stop.”

 

They kissed passionately as he continued thrusting inside her. She was warm, soft...and his. The little minx was holding her hips so that she offered him such a sweet resistance, that he knew he wouldn’t last long. 

 

She was watching him, and it felt odd, but somehow right. No woman ever watched him fuck her, usually the turned away or closed her eyes. Sansa’s were looking straight at him, with a ethereal smile on her face. It made him want to make love to her more, stay with her forever. Damn the woman to the Seven Hells, she’d always get what she wanted from him. 

 

“I want your seed in me Sandor.” She whispered in his ear as he labored away, sheathing himself desperately inside her. 

 

That was all he needed to come to his end, just her simple, honest direct words. He gripped her has hard as he could, hugging her close. He put it deep inside of her, filling her to the brim with what she wanted. Sandor put his forehead to Sansa’s, breathing deeply and raggedly. He could feel her soft hands moving gently up and down his back, stroking him, relaxing him...loving him.

 

It was several long and satisfying moments that passed before she spoke, quietly in the dim light of the tent, “I’m so happy we are reunited Sandor. I was afraid I lost you.”

 

He rolled off to the side of her, pulling her body against his, her head to his chest. “I never knew you were mine to lose.”

 

Sansa hummed thoughtfully, drawing figures with a slender finger on his chest. “I promise never to leave your side.”

 

He opened his mouth to say something, but the evenness of her breath and the sudden stop of her finger playing along his chest signaled to him that she had fallen asleep.  Sandor threw a fur over her naked back and kept her close. They were reunited, a love so strong that neither gods nor men could tear them apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers! This wraps up this short fun story. Thanks for reading!


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